


Heresy

by larissabernstein



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aestheticism, Art Philosophy, Character Study, Dante Alighieri - Freeform, Gen, Hannibal (TV) Ravage Anthology, Heresy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mythology References, Poetry, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sonnets, divine comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 02:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: This sonnet circle was created forRAVAGE: An Infernal Hannibal Anthology, published in 2019 by Love Crime Books, for the 6th circle of hell. It is an intense study of Hannibal's character in relation to his aesthetic and religious conviction.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 7
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	Heresy

**Heresy**

1.

They say that nature is the child of God:

Created by His hand and raised to rage.

What crawls and creeps and stinks and bores Him end-

lessly: a spitting image of His spite.

By sheer divine good luck His second child

Turned out much better and deserves the crown:

For it is art that elevates the swamp,

Finds beauty in disaster and brings out

Its charms, makes pearls and jewels out of raw

Materials: the torn and tettered limbs

Of giants, the dumb and mangled morals

Of the herd, their fear and cries of pain.

It does not mimic but gives truest form

And worth to what they call the _genesis_.

2.

I ponder such while I perform my work,

Arms elbow-deep in glistening viscera,

Their shape and surface perfect for my task.

I see the finished sculpture in my mind:

A stretch of meanings, carefully entwined,

A healthy dose of irony, a mix

Of texture, colour, and Epicurean

Lore: pieces of wisdom offered freely.

A patron of the arts they used to call

The artist whom they did not recognise.

My message is not for the simpletons

Who fill the operas and the galleries.

It is a cosmic deed, the culling of the rude,

A dialectic _Aufhebung_ at core.

3.

See, every true, good artist is a killer.

Someone who cuts into your brain to shock

And rattle you, to slice away beliefs

Or lazy misconceptions of the world.

A book, a painting, a tableau that does

Not grip your heart is worth a sneer at best.

The artwork is my altar, a place of

Worship — I offer immortality

In turn. Eternal life is not to be

Retrieved in heaven but in art alone.

The immortality of souls is just

A sham, a broken promise of the priests.

Why would a deity want to surround

Himself with petty human souls for long?

4.

God is an artist, brushes dipped in blood,

Clay mixed with flesh, His music filled with screams.

It is an honest job, to peel away

Layers and layers of moralistic

Dogmata, laid bare and flayed down to the

Shiny bones, the skeleton of ugly

And base existence. Such lowly life needs

An adversary, a force that questions

And denies, a spirit that refuses

To be complicit in banality.

If there are humans to be found in my

Creations, or so-called “victims” — think twice:

Would you have attributed worth to them

And seen them as your equals anyway?

5.

What they call sin or evil or a crime

Is deconstruction on a cosmic scale.

Not just the doings of the moody gods

That dwell in legend and in epic myths,

For they are full of human weaknesses.

A deconstruction of the highest sort,

Composed, designed, and rationally planned,

Yet full of inspiration and artful

Wit. It is an age old principle of

Balance between the chaos and control.

This modern culture lacks the sympathy

And comprehension of such element.

It is ironic: What they call the dark

Or devil, they will never fully see.

6.

Law cannot aptly understand art’s call.

And this is neither new nor a surprise,

Nor is this fact of any consequence.

The artist will do as he pleases then,

And if the law enforcers are at least

Annoyed by his greater sagacity,

The master’s artwork has not left them cold.

For one, they make a captive audience:

And while they won’t be touched by the divine,

Their undeniable respect is a

Preliminary stage of worshipping.

A game of cat and mouse still entertains.

They can rob me of freedom or of life,

But I will always be one step ahead.

7.

Religion is too watered-down to see

The beauty and the drama in the gore.

The bacchanals of old, the rituals,

The offerings and sacrifices of

All creatures, animal or human form,

The divination from entrails of both,

And also trial by ordeal (in most

creative ways), and many more — they were

A catalyst of transformation, for

Society at large. From death came life,

From death came passion, wild and raw and true.

Death’s possibility infused the air,

A world of chaos, governed by the sword

Of Damocles, cathartic in its threat.

8.

Polite society calls it disease,

Psychopathy or just insanity.

So — prophets were insane, as were the priests,

The seers, and angelic messengers.

And God Himself? Must be the worst of all!

Magnificent in His allmighty wrath.

Theodicy is common people’s sin:

_Why is there evil in this world when God_

_Is good?_ — Who said He is? That’s wishful hope

Of creatures low and weak, scrambling for bits

Of justice and protection, clemency.

Survival of the fittest knows no grace.

If there’s a God, He is on top of the

Food chain. He simply is and can.

9.

I happened — this sums up my origins.

The blood that flows through me is mine alone.

Whatever family I had is gone,

Their gravestones crumbled into dust and dirt,

Their memories locked up behind a door

Too heavy to let anything escape.

(This is not fully true, but it is of

No consequence. Not anymore at least.)

A castle in a land far, far away,

Encased in never ending winter storms,

Deserted and forlorn for good. To me.

A once-upon-a-time, not true, not false.

I can and will never return to stones

Too cold, to memories of what had been.

10.

The highest form of the divine is to

Destroy and cross its orders, rules and laws.

They don’t apply to me who’s not a tool

Or executioner of powers high

Above. I don’t take orders, I don’t serve.

There is no mission or assignment from

A judge; I am my own guide through my hell.

It is my playground and my canvas, not

A prison. I refuse to bow before

A master — it would be unnatural.

Should fate and death have any bearing on

My person, I will not accept the verdict.

There is no need for me to hide my face

Before a God. I dare Him to observe.

11.

An artist needs an audience (and so

Does God), that’s capable of seeing him,

And feeling the intentions in his work.

The one true pair of eyes, the one true mind,

That looks behind the veil of his disguise,

Appreciates the art by giving in

And falling into its abyss as if

It were a mirror. Not an acolyte

Or an apostle, but a disciple

Who’s already a master of his own.

A cunning boy with gifts not yet unleashed,

Still malleable, breakable — up to

The point when he is not and shows his claws.

A worthy equal then, my Patroclus.

12.

Love is a catchall name that I refuse

To call in careless way what I hold dear.

It’s seldom used for family we did

Not choose (and in the rare case — no, cut off

This verse, and lock and seal the door for good).

How do I know it’s love then? It is a

Hellish thing. It rips into your self, just

Like my knife, it twists the blade, to kill not,

But to maim. It hunts its mirror, hunts itself.

I should resist and keep in mind the frauds,

The lies, the wounds and scars, betrayal by

The one. But then, if anything like love

(Heroic love, demonic love) exists,

I would not want it any other way.

13.

I will not give in to the bonds of time.

The past is fluid and bendable in my

Vast palace of the mind and memories.

The future is a field of possible

Alternatives which just a die or coin

Might help me pick. (A game of fate again.)

Some say we cannot see the future that’s

Too close to present life, or present life

Itself. However, what they do not know:

The present never really is unless

One names it zero. It could be the point

Where we both end and you and I begin.

This point negates the ebb and flow of time,

It opens gates to circles unexplored.

14.

They say that nature is the child of God:

Arms elbow-deep in glistening viscera.

See, every true, good artist is a killer,

An adversary, a force that questions,

A deconstruction of the highest sort,

The artist will do as he pleases then.

The beauty and the drama in the gore:

Magnificent in His allmighty wrath.

The blood that flows through me is mine alone.

Should fate and death have any bearing on

The one true pair of eyes, the one true mind?

Hellish thing! It rips into your self, just —

Where we both end and you and I begin,

Created by His hand and raised to rage.

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to Romina and Jamie from Love Crime Books! It was a joy to be part of this wonderful project! <3


End file.
